Character Collection: Harry Potter
by deletrear
Summary: Unfinished or abandoned Harry Potter original characters/storylines, but wanted to post anyway. In the immortal words of Shrek: Better out than in. [2/?]
1. Turn on the Light (Constantina)

**Constantina Fenney, Reluctant Prophet**  
feat. _Witches, more witches, and Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

It was June 14, and Crane hadn't opened any windows. The humidity was a thick, sticking heat, cloying to breathe on top of the burning sage. Dark purple drapes covered the walls, blocking out the sun and strangling further the limited oxygen in the room. Crane had expertly removed or made redundant any and all means of ventilation.

I coughed, hoping to dislodge the sage. No success.

Lucetta Crane kissed her necklace with cracked lips. It was beaded, engraved with Norse runes. Much like the veil over her face and the shawl around her shoulders, I suspected the necklace was apart of a ploy. Same as everything else. Authenticity was a luxury hard to come by. The average client would settle for anything these days.

"Are you ready, Ms Bridges?"

Anne Bridges was a muggle-born from Hackney. She was in possession of sunken, dark eyes and listless hands that hovered nervously around her mouth. Her nails were bitten to stubs, suggestive of at least one bad habit.

The other, I thought, had lead Bridges here.

Bridges smiled slightly. "As I shall ever be,"

"Spectacular. May I take your — "

"If I may, very quickly," Bridges cut in, eyes flicking to the left side of the room. _My _side. "Might I inquire about your presence, Mrs . . ."

"Miss," I told her, "and you certain may."

"I — well — I believe my reading is supposed to be . . . private?"

"Do you expect something humiliating to come up?" I raised my eyebrow.

"No!" Bridges said, dismayed. Her equally distressed fingernails returned to the vicinity of her mouth. "Just . . . I thought these types of ordeals to be . . . _intimate_. Only for certain ears, as it were."

Normally, yes they were. But this was not normal. Not that Bridges was to blame; she was here for a generic 'what-do-I-do-with-my-life?' reading (_change your career _was a popular one). It was a broad question that would court a broad answer. There was nothing special about Anne Bridges. This was slightly larger than her.

Crane exuded her carefully tailored aura of mystery, helped along by the props in her room. "The lady is Valentina. She is a powerful witch, here to assist in the reading. She means no harm."

I met Crane's eyes as best as possible with the veil over her face. I mouthed, _Valentina__? _She pretended not to see me.

Although still quite stung, Bridges, under Crane's attention, relaxed. She turned to me. "You are a Seer as well?"

Hm. I laid my hand on my knee, gripping tight to feel my burning touch through the thick robes, which I regretted. Had I known what Crane planned, I would have worn something more . . . breathable. "I am a Seer," I said.

"I — will I be paying extra?"

"Merlin, certainly not!" cried Crane as if she could not imagine a worse outcome. "Valentina is merely here to . . . let us say . . . direct the relevant energies along the correct path. Her being present will assist the overall accuracy, Ms Bridges, I assure you!"

Twin rosy spots rose to Bridges' cheeks, deaging her by a decade at least. I knew Crane was too perceptive to miss it. I wondered if romance would come up in the reading — obviously, Bridges was lacking in it. "That sounds agreeable. Thank you, Angelina. And you, Valentina." I tried not to cringe when she addressed me. What a dreadful name.

Crane smiled humbly. The sage burning on the tablecloth went through a particularly strong strain, making it impossible for me to speak. If I opened my mouth it would be to cough or to take my final breath before my lungs, furious at their treatment, committed suicide. Goodness.

"May I take your hands? To channel your energy. For this to work I'll need to be familiar with it."

"Oh! Certainly!"

They joined hands and bowed their heads closer together. Crane hummed intermittently, strategic "oohs" and "ahhs" that had Bridges' eyes sparkling. After a moment Crane withdrew. She picked up a bulky package wrapped in velvet cloth, tied off at the top with a leather string. All very legit. Crane shook it about, items within clattering distinctly. There was no mistaking that heavy sound: stones.

"I see . . ." Crane intoned. Then the real show began. The words erupted from deep in her chest; confident, powerful.

Runes full of power  
Runes full of might,

I ask that you grant me,  
the gift of true sight.

Just for a moment,  
if you so choose,

fill me great symbols,  
to capture the news.

Crane upended the stones, which clattered across the table, thirteen in number. Crane made a low contemplative noise as she surveyed them. A prompt. Or better — bait. With eerily likeness to a common trout, Bridges bit.

"What? What is it? What do they say?"

Crane looked very seriously at the rocks. She sounded grave when she asked, "Do you enjoy where you work, Anne?"

* * *

An hour later, I hung my head out a kitchen window taking in greedy lungfuls of air. Crane lingered in the doorway talking lowly with Bridges before they hugged. Bridges bounded out of the house, Crane waving until she was out of sight. As soon as the coast was clear, Crane groaned, pulled her veil off, and threw it across the room. It hit an embroidered throw pillow before toppling, falling limply to the carpet. Crane followed it, sprawling.

I brought my head back in. There was something I needed to ask before anything else:

"_Valentina_?"

"You know I couldn't give your real name; what if she recognized it? Besides, it's close enough," Crane combed her fingers through her hair, colour indistinguishable from ink and all sorts of dark matter. You could scry with hair like Crane. "Morgana's tits, I _despise_ that thing."

"No one forces you to wear it."

"Pride in my work doesn't count, does it?"

"Is that what it is called? Back in my day, what you did back there was known as 'scamming your customers into thinking you're legit'."

She paused, her faux guilelessness bringing out the youth in her round cheeks. "I wasn't too obvious, was I?"

"The reading room could use a vent or two. Your next client might suffocate before you can get paid," I said tiredly. My nose still burned.

"Got it. Windows. What about the actual reading, though? Good?"

"Vague. Little bit like a horoscope. You did well to ask her questions as you interpreted the runes."

Crane preened. As a former Slytherin, casual interrogation in the middle of polite conversation was child's play. Bridges practically gave her own reading. She fed all her anxieties and desires to Crane, who ate it up and shat it out for three bleeding galleons an hour. Professional bullshitting paid well. If hysterically outrageous lying was a crime, Crane would be behind bars in Azkaban right now "You certainly convinced her," I sighed.

Proud, Crane went to fetch the tea seat, flicking her wand to set her cast-iron kettle on the stove. She also fetched a plate of warm afghans from the pantry. "Gluten-free," she promised. I nibbled some biscuits while waiting on the tea.

After two pots of Earl Grey, Crane cleared the table. "Can we do it now?" She asked.

It was why I was here. But I wasn't exactly trembling from anticipation. From other things, maybe. "Fine," I grouched. I summoned my set of stones from my purse, wrapped in a slightly damp tea towel I'd used to dry the dishes only this morning.

Crane's eye twitched. "Really?"

"I don't need to sell my abilities to someone who believes in them," I told her tartly, "Do you have your question?"

She nodded. "Do I need to say it?"

"Thinking should suffice,"

I threw the stones. Unlike Crane, I used crystals instead of runes. Personal preference. It always seemed clearer, for me, to use crystals I found myself. About seven stones landed too far away to count, so I ignored them. The first stone was jade — woman — with a black opal sitting close. "A woman, or someone in your life who represents nurturing, maternal characteristics. It could even be a male with feminine energies — "

"So, anyone," interrupted Crane dryly.

I shot her a look. "It is whoever you thought of first. They're beside a sorrow stone. Self-explanatory. Maybe they're sad, maybe they are a source of sadness in your life —"

"A source," Crane said immediately, before barking a laugh, "Merlin, they're a well of it."

I took that on board silently, carrying on. "Next is the moon stone. Or death. It's, it could go either way. Could be both. Moon is change, intuition, and death means more than someone dying, obviously. New beginnings, banishment — you know this, Crane. Your source of sadness is going to undergo changes. It might be a shift, so to speak, in mindset, but I have the feeling it is more drastic. Two of _those _stones make me think . . . it is going to be a big change, that's all. Then we have serpentine, citrine; future and fire. Control, fate, creativity, willpower. This change will empower you, give you a sense of control over your life, your fate. Get it?"

"Okay," Crane murmured. Her hand cradled her chin thoughtfully, "I . . . okay. Anything else?"

The other stones landed too far from my diamond — the center. I shook my head. "That's it. Anything in particular stand out, click for you?"

She smiled thinly. "You know it did."

Yes, I suppose so.

"Answer your question?"

Her lips went flatter. "In a way," she huffed. I accepted that, gathering my stones in my tea towel. Crane was spacing out on the sofa and I left her to it. A lot of people I read for ended up in a similar state of outwards blankness. Processing. The effect was more prominent in those who know my . . . credentials. My predictions were not without weight, as was the consequence of all truths, and people must adjust to the burden of such a heaviness or be crushed under it. I fetched myself a cup of water from the tap, cracked open a book, and read while I waited.

I roused when Crane spoke, finally; "Are you reading Gilderoy Lockhart?"

She almost sounded excited.

"He's a scam, but an entertaining one."

"He's a _what_?"

I smirked at her. "You two would get along smashingly,"

Deciding to ignore that — for now — Crane leaned back in her overstuffed sofa. It threatened to eat her alive. Voice as cracked and flaky as her lips, she said, "If you're right . . . that would be nice, I think,"

I already had my suspicions, unvoiced, about who the reading referred to. I met Crane when she sought me out, something about "scoping out the competition". She was pleased to hear I was retired, then fascinated as to how my reputation lingered years after I left the profession. I ended up tutoring her in legitimacy — she was a knock-off version of the real thing and proud of it. I was introduced to her mum some months later, just the once, to see if I could help. It was impossible, of course, but Crane knew that to begin with.

_I can't divine her memories back into her head, _I told the young woman. I also said to her, _She's a bad apple__._

Crane had looked up from her shoes, the first time all night. _How can you tell?_

Hours. Hours I'd been with her, and that was the only time she looked at me, eyes like golden cider. Crane's were distinct for their uniquely bright irises: remnants from a lamia ancestry. Her mother's looked like urine, personally speaking. Crane asked how I could tell, like anyone who knew her wouldn't know something was amiss.

_I can always tell._

I didn't realize then how seriously she would take me.

* * *

I retired at twenty-four years old.

Most Seers could divine until death claimed them, determined one's continuing from beyond the grave. I knew a ghost like that. A plump old woman who read my palm and said I would make a lasting impression on the world, an unforgettable mark. I hadn't known better not to be flattered, not back then. Wariness was a virtue I learned later, and late.

Now thirty-five, I lived in a small cabin in the hills of Scotland. Close to magic, away from the troubles it brought. I made an occasional trip into London to visit Crane and other friends, but for the most part I kept away from Diagon Alley. Enough time passed for the hub to be healed of its war wounds. A lot of stores weren't there anymore, because their owners weren't. Not all were my fault . . . but there were enough. There was always a possibility. I wouldn't — couldn't — risk it. I avoided Diagon Alley ever since I figured out how to ward my cabin from owls.

This was how I took care of myself.

My cabin was made of cedar wood. One-story, I didn't need space, with large windows to let light in. A veranda wrapped around the front, home to my favourite rocking chair and a small table stained by tea rings. From the outside, one could assume an old woman lived there. Inside wasn't much different. I was dearly fond of beige and floral patterns.

I kept telling myself I would at least get a new couch; leather, dark, so it would not clash with my green carpet. Who knew when — or if — I would follow through.

I swept the rooms and tidied a row of herbs sunning on my windowsill. I moved outside to remove weeds from the garden, uprooting an uncontrollable onion that was interrupting the growth of other plans. I considered burning sage to cleanse energies that may have dallied while I was away, but it was much too soon after Crane. I lit incense instead. My body moved through the motions without input from me; these tasks were engraved into my marrow.

The goat, Meat Patty, was then milked. I checked on the cheese in my cellar. All errands finished, I ate a light lunch and went about consecrating my new set of tarot cards, as well as cleansing them. They were a gift from an old housemate, Phoebe. Beautiful set. I couldn't wait to put it to use.

At three, I had an appointment. He arrived fifteen minutes late, knock whimsical and rhythmic.

I opened the door. Albus Dumbledore, dressed in an offensive yellow robe adorned in shimmering magenta stars, beamed at me. "Constantina!"

"Albus, you're late."

"You must forgive me, my dear. I was on my way when I was waylaid by a gathering of brownies. Right outside the boundary! They asked if I had some work for them, a place to nest, but, as you know, Hogwarts already has elves. I turned them in the direction of the Lloyds."

"Good choice," I hummed. The Lloyds would take in the brownies. I'd never met a family lazier. "What were a gathering doing out so far, do you know?"

"Migration," said Albus wonderingly, "Isn't that interesting?"

"Sure, excellent. Come on in, I have a pot of tea waiting."

We sat on my scratchy sofa, Albus regaling me with tales of Hogwarts, which, to my relief, continued to be at odds with every sense of propriety and order. Hogwarts had always been a beacon of light. Asking about it was . . . it was like nursing a smoldering campfire on its last legs. You poked and prodded to keep the fire, the love, alive. Because you could. Because you missed the warmth. Albus told me of schoolyard antics and I would talk of the minimal happenings of my life.

"A lark visited yesterday," I said. "That is as exciting as my days dare get."

Albus' eyes twinkled. He knew something I did not. "Constantina, if I may, could I trouble you for a reading?"

Rejection was on the tip of my tongue.

"You don't have to," Albus tilted his head.

Oh, how I wished that were true.

". . . What type were you after?"

"Your choice, my dear."

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed my stones as they seemed to be the theme of the day. I cleared the table and secured my stones in the empty plastic sleeve that once contained shortbread, now eaten. "Do you need me to do anything?" Albus inquired quite uselessly.

"You know very well what to do," I narrowed my eyes. Chuckling, Albus dipped his long nose. He closed his eyes, thinking hard. Once it felt right I cast the stones. Only two were not apart of the reading, leaving me to parse the story from the remainders. What I saw brought a frown to my face. I could not help it. How . . .

"What _was_ your question, Albus?"

He smoothed the front of his blinding robes, which were unwrinkled. "I inquired about you, what awaited you in your near future. Nothing dire, I hope?"

I stared uncomprehendingly. My stones could be interpreted however I wished, but there was always a level of intuition in divination, even with some of the stricter practices. I could twist it however I wished — read these stones as a vague but hopeful wish for the future, maybe squint and See a visit overseas. But my gut pulled me in a certain direction. I saw the stones and knew, instantly, what I was looking at.

Merlin's dusty balls.

I told Albus, "You are not funny."

As if to contradict me, he smiled widely, pleased as a peach. "What do you see?"

"I see," I sneered, "a _change of job. _Are you kidding me?"

Laughter erupted from Albus. He always found joy in my readings, except for the dark ones, though there hadn't been many of those recently. Not for years. For the happy, or at least the accurate ones, Albus always smiled and tittered and praised me. _Honest divination is difficult to find, _he said, _I admit that it excites me. You cannot teach Sight._

Divination wasn't the Sight, I told him. Divination was divination; a way of predicting the future. Possessing the Sight was a branch of divination, rare because it was the clearest vision of the future one could get, but everything else wasn't rubbish just because it wasn't spelled out. The future was flexible, and Divination as an art reflected that by being adaptable. Scientific types didn't like it, but they didn't have to. Albus could very well learn how to read the Signs. I think he preferred going to me, though.

I suppose I knew why, now.

"You are correct," Albus hummed. He sipped his tea, eyes gleaming over the rim of his teacup. "There is an opening and I would quite like for you to fill it, Constantina. Divination is a noble magic. I would want no one else but you to teach it."

"What about Trelawney?"

"Indisposed by an influenza. I believe she's at St. Mungo's right now, in treatment."

"You could ask the centaurs," I muttered weakly. Albus said nothing. We both knew that was impossible. He wouldn't be shot on sight, not Albus, but he certainly wouldn't be welcome. Centaurs would see it as the ultimate insult to work for humans; not that I blamed them, since I wasn't too keen on the prospect myself.

"Term starts in two weeks. Owl me with your decision. Just know that it would be my utmost pleasure to have you as apart of my staff, my dear."

" . . . I'll think about it."

It was enough. Albus smiled warmly as he took his leave. I watched him walk to the boundary, several hills away, where his small silhouette waved at me before Apparating away. To Hogwarts, perhaps, or near enough. I wondered if the other Professors knew what he was up to, if they approved. I couldn't imagine I would be welcome. Not by the parents, and not by the Professors.

Constantina Fenney, Professor of Divination. It was asking for trouble.

* * *

Veritaserum: noun. A powerful potion that forced its user to tell the truth as they understood it. It was colourless, odourless, tasteless. It was dismissible in court as select witches and wizards could resist the potion's effect. So potent it was said a few drops of veritaserum and You-Know-Who himself would spill his darkest secrets.

(False.)

The Ministry strictly regulated its use.

I graduated top of my class in Divination. Professor Burbank praised me up and down for my talent, claiming that my inner eye was blown wide open. It helped that she was witness to my very first prophecy during detention. I was hand-washing her tea sets, accidentally shattered her favourite. She was very good about it.

The first few years following school were spent in London occupying a two-room flat in Etern Alley. I used the front room for my business and the back for living. Had a sign and everything.

F3NN3Y'S 3MPORIUM.

I had it good. I wasn't just popular, I was legitimate. Reliable. I couldn't hand out prophecies like candy but I could be a light for dark, lonely roads; a gentle pressure between your shoulders; an understanding smile during troubling times. _It's okay, _I would say. _It gets better._

And Fenney was always right.

People believed in me. As far as mediumship went, I was a household name. If you were into divination, you knew me, you knew of what I could do, the things I spoke into being. Those who didn't care for the art didn't matter to me; for those who needed it I was helping them. Everything else was secondary.

I was doing good work. Not necessarily important, but I wasn't hurting anyone. I was proud of it.

It lasted as long as it took for him to walk in.

"Can you read the past?" He asked. Innocuous. I'd gotten it so many times before. It was a reading, nothing strange about it.

I smiled, told him that of course I could, let him sit at my table. I shuffled, cut, drew, and said that he'd lived a hard childhood. There wasn't enough love to go around. "Not that you wanted it." I pointed at the King of Swords, "You prefer worship."

I mentioned power. Hunger. Longing.

"You've never fit in. Do you want to? No — no, you don't. I don't know why I even asked. It's about having a place above the rest. You . . . you are special."

He stared me in the eyes, called me interesting in turn: we had traded, very politely, some genuine compliments_. _He then wrapped his long fingers around my wrist and spoke, lowly, secretively:

"Will you scry for me, Constantina Fenney?"

I said yes. I wanted to help.

"Think of a question."

The funny part is that I did nothing wrong. I didn't mispeak. I did not stutter. I was correct. Accurate about everything. I was the best and I proved it to him and he, like all the others, believed me.

I did nothing wrong.

The Dark Lord thought of a question, and I answered it.

* * *

"What does Lucetta think?"

"Crane doesn't know."

Phoebe poorly smothered her amusement behind a delicate hand. "Well, when you eventually share the news, do make sure I'm present. She'll make such a face!"

It was impossible to keep it from Crane; the cancellations would be enough reason for her to poke her nose in, and she wouldn't leave me alone until she'd wrung an explanation out of me. The least I could do was make sure Phoebe and Crane weren't near each other when I broke the news. Last time the duo were in the same building, Crane almost made an unbreakable promise to swear she would ruin Phoebe's life. And her daughters'. And her grandchildren, too, for good measure.

"Do it, darling. What have you to lose?"

"My carefully won anonymity?"

"It was never going to last," Phoebe scoffed. "You can't keep your nose out of it."

"I can if I'm being sent death threats every day," I disagreed.

I once thought it would be unlikely that I would retire, that I would ever turn my cheek to pain and strife. Then the owls came and kept coming and didn't stop.

"You can't," she said. Phoebe twisted her pinky ring idly, a tell, her only. It meant she was thinking something controversial. I've seen her spin her ring before taking to Wizengamot to defend her clients. She usually won, I noticed. "It's why you'll take this job. You need to feel useful."

I thought of Crane. Her new house had three-storeys. She never could have afforded it before me. "I'm useful," Phoebe pointlessly stirred her tea just to let me simmer in my pathetic lie. I squirmed. That was when she broke the tension by drinking out of the cup.

"It's been boring this past decade. You can't imagine that will last?"

"Why won't it? We are at peace."

"It's quiet, not peaceful," Phoebe corrected me scornfully. "It will shatter as silences do, and you, my darling, will situate yourself in the middle of it. You can't help it. Fenney needs to see the pain so she can heal it, isn't that right?"

Phoebe wanted one of two things: for me to give in or to fight back. Pride kept my chin up, logic stitched my lips together. She was right. I loathed it. I met Phoebe when she dragged my cursed body to the Hospital Wing. I'd gotten myself stuck into a fight that didn't necessarily involve me. Phoebe knew my impulses better than anyone. I could recall it vividly in my head: young Phoebe rolling her eyes, pressing her thumb to my split lip, saying, _"__firsties should learn how to keep their opinions to themselves, don't you think?"_

_"__I never think," _I had said. I remember the gleam in her eyes, the amusement. We've been friends ever since. It was the regret of my life.

"People will riot."

"Let them. The board wouldn't dare stand against you," Phoebe laughed. "Half the members on it need to treat you delicately or be looked upon with suspicion. How can they cry 'Imperius!' if they don't have sympathy for you?"

It was a valid argument, not without foundation. I ran into Malfoy in Diagon Alley weeks after You-Know-Who's demise. He'd apologized for his part to play. One might think our audience was a sign of sincerity. After all, what Malfoy would make himself vulnerable in front of a crowd?

"I have killed people,"

"You have done no such thing."

"I helped."

"You were not indicted —" The noise I made shut her up. Phoebe always stopped in her tracks when I sounded like that. She was sick of it when she first heard it and hadn't worked up a tolerance. Self-pity was a pet peeve of hers. Phoebe leaned in and took my chin, making sure I couldn't escape her stern gaze. "No, be quiet. Don't think about Malfoy, Goyle, or Crabbe. _You_ weren't indicted. Not because you lied and bribed your way out of Azkaban, but because a jury looked at the evidence and declared you innocent. You did not kill anyone."

I gripped the leather arms of my chair like Phoebe was going to pull me out of it. "Not everyone agrees with you."

Phoebe was unmoved. As always, staunch.

Our stalemate was broken by the door opening. Eurus hesitated. "My love," he began, "you remember you signed a prenup?"

Phoebe huffed like she was resentful she found such a comment funny. My chin was released. Phoebe relaxed comfortably into her seat, waving in her husband with the grace of someone who was used to being waited on. "I told you I was entertaining!"

"I am not allowed to miss my wife?" They leaned in to share a kiss. I looked away. "Hello, Constantina."

"Eurus."

He addressed his wife, an expression of longsuffering pulling at his wrinkles. He was Phoebe's senior by fourteen years. She wept when she told me of their engagement. Not so much anymore. "Astoria has ripped up her violin to protest sexism in the classical music society."

Phoebe sighed heavily.

"She's so willful," she murmured, not displeased, just unsure how to punish such an action. If one even _should_.

"Can we not simply fix it? A _reparo _would do the trick,"

"It is about more than the damage," said Eurus. He turned to me. "My apologies, Constantina. I have no doubt Astoria will kick up quite the fuss. Could we move you to the reading room for the time being?"

I dreaded sitting by myself when I'd come to Greengrass Manor for the sole purpose of not dwelling in my own thoughts. I stood. I'd left sweat prints on the chair. "I should get going, actually,"

Phoebe didn't bother politely protesting, drawing me into a loose hug, kissing both my cheeks. "Take the job," she whispered into my ear.

I worked my jaw, frustrated. "Even though it will be dangerous?"

"Oh, but you adore that, don't you darling?"

To that, I found that I had nothing to say.

* * *

_Albus,_

_Alright, then. But I'm doing it my way. Try not to be an insufferable braggart about it._

_Make sure Snape maintains his distance, too. I want a room as far from the dungeons as possible, am I understood?_

_— __C.J.F_

* * *

Note:

First of who-knows-how-many Harry Potter wips I have on file. I'm spring cleaning. Maybe I'll stop thinking about them when I post, I dunno, why not try? Primarily original characters in this series. Be aware!

Constantina's role was to be a mentor figure to the Trio, of course, but primarily Ron. When he's joking around with his predictions they tend to come true; I thought it would be... something... if a serious Seer was to poke at his latent Divination abilities. Also, it would annoy Hermione.


	2. Chasing the Sun (Janus)

**Janus Price, Connoisseur of Magical Beasts**  
feat._ His Crabby Godson & Newt Scamander_

* * *

Technically, Evander Greaves isn't aware of a great many things. Does he have suspicions? Of course he does, he's not daft. But that's all it is: suspicion, hearsay, theories. Perhaps his godfather is involved in a few illegal transactions, but it's hard to he sure as he's never been treated to the specifics. Honest.

Really, Evander knows just enough to warn him away from learning more.

"Can't snitch if you don't know what you're snitching about," Janus used to tell him, followed by a rough noogie. "Scram, nugget. This is adult business, not made for tiny people like you. How 'bout you get the kettle boiled?"

At six, Evander _loved _getting the kettle boiled. Didn't last long, but yeah: those were the golden years.

As he grew up into a teenager he became less willing to trot into the kitchen, start on two cuppas, and forget about whatever maybe-illegal thing he'd witnessed. He started wondering _which _maybe-illegal thing he was witnessing.

Because his godfather dabbled in a _lot._ As you do.

Like, seriously, the old man needed a better hobby.

If it wasn't escorting cages into their Extended basement, it was sacks of eggs, or potions, or documents, or warded cases that Evander was emphatically told _never _to touch. One time, it was a stinky old sock that his godfather pinned next to their lunar calendar (Evander couldn't come up with an explanation for that; only knew that one night, he came over to find it roasting in the fireplace).

Despite the vague criminality that acted as a fairly consistent backdrop to his childhood, Evander didn't have much to complain about, being raised by Janus. The house was cozy, the neighbours had always been willing to look after him, and Evander was allowed to attend muggle school for a while to "broaden his horizons". Apart from the whole _orphan _thing, he really had it good.

"Don't go telling your Aunt that," Janus says once Evander gets in a mood and says as much. "She'll get ideas."

"Ideas of you being a suitable caregiver?" Evander huffs. "So terrible, is it?"

"In fact, you ponce, it is. I'm not related to Clarice Greaves and quite honestly consider it a blessing that she does not make regular visits to my house out of polite, familial obligation, just so she can have tea and passive-aggressively comment on how my drapes indicate that I have a genetic disposition for depression and savagery."

It's certainly an informed opinion to have on Evander's aunt, although not inaccurate. She likes to criticize. For the moment, her favourite subject is Evander's haircut and his poor posture; and if she were any less mind-addledly disgusted by the state of Janus Price's life, she might entertain the urge to say something about it. All in the name of helping, of course.

"I don't think Auntie Clary would want to visit you even if she knew you weren't completely incompetent with me."

"Kind of you to say so, Evan. Bollocks, but kind enough."

Evander shrugs. Possibly, he's underestimating his Aunt's compulsive need to stick her nose in everyone's business. The slightest hint that Janus wouldn't bite it off, and she might just do it to him, it's true. "I'll continue telling her that you're abusing me, shall I?"

Janus goes still — mite bit concerning — before he makes a small sound of amusement into his tea. "Abusing you?"

"Oh, terribly. You cane me. Sometimes, I'm not fed for days because you're too busy blowing our money at the local pub. I sleep on the floor, and haven't shopped for clothes in years!"

Janus smirks, which _doesn't _mean that he won't be smacking Evander up the head for this whole thing later, but indicates that he might _not_ if Evander plays his cards right. "Bet Clarice loved to hear that. Explains why you keep coming back with new clothes and a full stomach."

"Not the death stare though?"

"She's been giving me them for years," Janus says, sounding terribly casual about it. "I'm used to them."

"Well, now I'm dead curious. Why doesn't she like you?"

Janus taps his fingers against the cup, squinting like he does when he's trying to figure out a way to not say what Evander clearly wants to hear. It is not Evander's favourite expression. "Clarice is… not a big fan of your mum."

"She's never mentioned it," Evander tries, and Janus snorts as if the very thought is hilarious. "What?"

"Clarice wouldn't. Same reason she doesn't come in when she drops you off. She doesn't talk to or about the topics that really drive her mad — your old lady is such a topic."

"What's that got to do with you?"

"As far as she knows — or anyone, really, since I went to her so young — Rhea Plonsonby was my older sister. Naturally, with her death, the animosity of all the people she pissed off was transferred unto me. Yippee."

Janus doesn't sound particularly upset about it, but it makes Evander angry. True, he doesn't know a lot about his mother or her personality problems. It doesn't change that Janus raised him, and raised him well. No matter what alleged sins his mother committed to earn the animosity of her husband's family, he knew one thing for certain: Janus Price didn't deserve it.

Evander grinds his teeth. "That's not fair."

"Moody brat," says Janus, and he laughs. The sound startles Evander out of his red haze. "Seriously — you tell them I'm abusing you, then get mad when they believe it? It's _fine. _I'm not hurting you, and there's nothing Clarice Greaves can do to take you out of my custody, not since her husband left her. No harm, no foul."

Except Evander knows Janus would never treat him like that. His godfather is a criminal. There are artefacts and living creatures under the kitchen floor that would send Janus straight to Azkaban. He's entrenched in shady business and Evander is endangered simply by existing around it. But Janus has never raised a hand to him. He's never let him go to sleep on an empty stomach. He sends Evander away instead of making him help, and it's frustrating that someone could look at Janus and believe that he'd hurt Evander. That he could possibly _want _to.

"You're a berk," says Evander, "but it's not as if I wanna go anywhere else."

Janus waggles his eyebrows. "That'd be the Stockholm talking." Evander groans, caught between relief and annoyance that his godfather feels the need to Curse every shred of genuine affection that's offered to him. "Oi. Get me the biscuits from the cupboard, would you? Should have shortbread somewhere."

"Can I use my magic?" Evander asks, not moving.

"Depends. Are you seventeen?"

"No—"

"Capital. There's your answer."

"Well, can't _you_ use magic?"

"And let you grow complacent? Never, Evander. Never. Hurry with the shortbread, Merlin, you're a sloth. Chop, chop!"

* * *

"Where do you go every month?"

"Alofi, Niue."

Evander frowns. "Bless you. Are you going to—" This is about when he realizes Janus' shoulders are shaking, and he snaps, "Why are you laughing at me?"

"I was answering, not sneezing. But hey, not my fault you didn't hear me. I'm not repeating myself."

Evander's blood starts to boil, he knows because he can feel his face growing hot. Could be frustration, could be humiliation. It's probably frustration, though. He hadn't expected his godfather would just — tell him the truth like that.

"That's not fair," He starts, flustered. "Say it again, I wasn't—"

"Not my fault. Should have paid attention the first time." Janus grins sharply, looking far too triumphant for Evander to be happy about it, and leaps to his feet. "On that note, I'm going to the basement!"

Evander stands as well. "Let me come!" He demands as if he expects his godfather to bow to his whims, when historically Janus has done everything in his power to keep Evander away from the underground level and doesn't seem interested in switching up that agenda.

Janus laughs again. "Bloody unlikely." He says, cheerful.

Case in point.

"Janus—"

"Why don't you write to your friends while I handle my business, Evan. You have an owl for a reason. Damn bird'll atrophy if you keep up the hermit act any longer."

Evander says, horrified, "Wilbert is _not _atrophying," and realizes belatedly that he's given Janus precisely the reaction he was going for, judging by the snicker he makes as he waltzes out the room. Evander shouts at his back: "And I'm not a hermit!"

"Could have fooled me, boy!" Janus voice already sounds far away. Then, the footsteps simply stop. Evander stands in the empty drawing room for as long as his curiosity allows (about half a second), before snapping into a run. He slides into his godfather's study, the room he heard his voice from, and finds it empty.

It's always empty. Evander habitually checks for secret compartments or warded shelves, but comes up with nothing to show for it. There are two entries into the enigmatic basement, and even after a decade of living on top of the cursed thing, Evander is no closer to figuring out how to use either one of them. He doesn't even know where the doors _are_.

Once again thwarted, Evander glares expansively at the room.

"I'll figure it out," he swears, "You can't outsmart me forever!"

But Janus tries. And actually succeeds for another six years. Impressive enough for a Hogwarts drop-out.

* * *

"On an intellectual note, it is all very impressive," Newt is saying, "But on a legal note, I think your uncle might end up going to prison for this. Which is spectacular, by the way."

Evander knows that. And he agrees, less because he's concerned with morality and more because he is aware of the law of this country, which expressly says that wizards aren't allowed to have a nest of occamy living in their basement.

Evander has a nest of occamy living in his basement.

In fact, Evander has plenty of creatures living in his basement. Not a single one should be. Not even Jemima; kneazles need to be registered as familiars, and Janus "hasn't gotten around to it yet."

Bollocks.

"Godfather, actually. And I thought you'd enjoy it," Evander says, crossing his arms. "You're not gonna turn him in, are you?"

Newt shoots him — well, his shoulder — a shrewd look. There is a tense pause where Evander considers that he might have to pull a wand on a former school friend.

Newt shakes his head. "Despite the reputation of his career and the general disposition of smugglers, the animals are being taken care of. To the best of your godfather's ability, I see. Would you… is there a _particular _reason I'm here, Greaves?"

Evander stares down the top of Newt's head. Squirrelly fellow, always has been. Somehow, Evander isn't surprised that Newt isn't any less nervous to be in a smuggler's basement than he was in their Charms classroom.

"We — that is, Janus' employees — found a… beast. We don't know what to do with her. It's a bit above his pay grade to care for, and my godfather — well, he has a bit of a code of honor with our animals. If he can't properly care for them, he won't keep them, and I heard from a friend of a friend in the Department about what it is you do now. Augustus Worme, yeah? Anyway, thought it'd be right up your alley."

Newt's face does something curious, and his eyes dart all over the room. The basement is charmed to hell and back to suit the habitat needs of the creatures they're handling — not perfectly, of course, but judging by the way Newt's tensing up, Evander isn't expecting their ignorance to be tolerated much longer. Newt seems to think he'll see the creature so long as he wills it into existence.

It doesn't, because that's not how magic works. Newt eventually asks, "And what is she, exactly?"

"A graphorn."

Newt swings around, shocked and alarmingly _not _alarmed. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah… we have a graphorn." If Evander sounds tired, he doesn't hold it against himself. Graphorns are large, powerful beasts that can and will take on a troll. They also don't much like cages, which is what this one is currently in since she's beaten up and threatening to bring the roof down on them all. "Have any experience with them?"

Newt is practically vibrating. "A _graphorn_? I've — yes, yes, I have some experience. Though I'm sorry to say that I'm not terribly learned on them, they haven't come up much in my travels; they prefer mountainous habitats, as you know, and I've just returned from Greenland. This is _brilliant._ May I see her?"

"That is why you're here, Scamander." His former housemate hardly seems to hear him, so Evander shakes his head and leads the way to their makeshift graphorn enclosure. "She's aggressive, so just… keep your distance."

Newt shoots him a look of unmitigated offense.

Evander isn't having it. "I remember the thestral lesson; you lose all self-preservation instincts when you meet a creature you're curious about. Today is just to observe, agreed? Tell us what we can do to make her more comfortable, speed up the healing."

Newt's mouth twitches.

"You're not — I understand I'm here to consult, but you can't possibly expect I'll assist with the graphorn only to let you sell her to the highest bidder?"

"I do have an idea of your character, actually. Funny that. We were roommates for seven years, Scamander, I _did _learn a thing or two about you." Newt seems perplexed, but relieved enough that his shoulders loosen up. "Janus will want to observe the beginning stages before he lets you spirit away with the merchandise."

_That _lights a fire in Newt's eyes. He ducks his head as if it'll hide the shortness of his voice. "They are not merchandise."

Well.

"Keep the smuggling humour to myself, then," Evander says, although he seems to have lost Newt. Oh well. He'll be sticking around for the week, at least. Evander will have time to redeem himself, if there is even a desire to. "Regardless, here we are. Behind me, remember?"

"The graphorn, please."

"Merlin, you're just the same. Alright. Janus, can I come in?"

The lock flicks, and Evander can hear the frightened roar of the graphorn. Barely louder is his godfather calling, "_Only if you got that schoolmate of yours with you!_"

Since Newt is at his elbow, Evander opens the door. The room rattles when the injured graphorn throws herself against the warded bars of her cage; it does little more than dizzy her as stumbles back. Evander catches the way one of her bottom legs gives up. Briefly, long enough to suggest damage. Her run is uneven, too.

Doesn't stop her from charging again. Janus clicks his tongue when the two sharp horns hit the wards, making them light up: brilliant, stable blue. Janus' wand resolutely stays up, feeding the spell despite the tremor in his wrist.

Evander purses his lips, suggests, "I can take over."

"You are cooking dinner," Janus says, an unsubtle way of shooting him down. In actuality, he thinks Evander's wards are shite. He is not wrong. "Newton Scamander?"

Newt jumps at being addressed. He's so far been staring lovingly at the horned-and-hooved monstrosity, and seemed quite content to keep on doing that. "Yes?"

"Heard of you. You make trouble in my type of circles, you know. Quite infamous considering it's been a few months since you went out into the world. Busting up rings left and right, keep losing contacts."

Newt replies, "It was my pleasure."

The honesty makes Janus laugh, at least. "Fair enough. Any experience with a prissy graphorn?"

"I have some ideas," Newt says. He adjusts his hold on his suitcase, shoots a cautious glance at them both, then gently sets it in the corner of the room. "Would you mind if I stepped closer?"

"Absolutely," Evander says, exasperated. "Because I'm not getting near, and you are supposed to stay behind me."

"I am consulting. This is how I consult. Can I get closer?"

"Are you listening to me at all, Scamander?"

He isn't. He's looking at Janus, who is stupidly looking back. After a moment, Janus shrugs like it's all no big deal and says, "I'm keeping up the wards, so don't ask me to stop that."

"I won't," Newt says, then: "Tomorrow, I might."

"Expect no less from a blasted Hufflepuff," Janus says. Easy. Once again, like it's no big deal when it very much _is_. "Careful approaching, though: big girl's dangerous."

"She is aggressive. Not dangerous."

"There much of a difference?"

And Newt, very disappointedly, says: "Of course there is."

* * *

"The thing I've never been able to understand — even more so considering the… news — is how I'm _your_ godson."

Janus doesn't quite raise his eyebrows and declare Evander an idiot, but it's a close thing. "Your parents elected me for the duty. Which is how it usually happens. Legally and in every other way pertaining to the assigning of a godparent. Weird how you don't know that by now."

"Yeah, see, that's why I'm asking," Evander says, disbelieving. "How could any human adult with sense look at you and decide, 'Sure, he'd be a good role model for a child!' Walk me through that, please."

"I'm not an expert on the subject, but bet it had something to do with the fact that your mother was not human nor sensible. She is the one who bit me," Janus sips his tea. "And your father must have been batshit crazy to marry her in the first place. If it helps, I didn't want you. You... you rather _happened_ to me, Evander."

"Thanks," says Evander. He considers that information. _Your mother is the one who bit me. _"Nice bit of tact. My mum bit you?"

"Truly. In all seriousness, your mother didn't trust anyone else."

"With me?"

"In general." Janus wrinkles his nose, rubbing at his wrist absently. "Bit of a paranoid insomniac, your mum. Bit me when I was fifteen because she was mental with loneliness and she wouldn't bite your dad. Took me in after my parents and the school gave me the sack — really though, it was the least she could have done."

Fifteen. Janus was seventeen when he officially took in Evander. That's a bit of a shock, those seem to keep on coming. Evander should just roll with the punches at this point: revelation after revelation.

"You were with mum for two years? How did you — I mean, _did _you forgive her for — for the whole —"

Janus appears amused. "Nope."

Which… isn't surprising, considering everything. Janus still winces. "Have you, yet?"

"Not planning to. Rhea was barking; she ruined my life, no ifs, buts, or maybes about it. I am quite pleased that she's dead; for a couple reasons, one of them being that I got you out of it," Janus blinks, and offers a slightly sincere, "Sorry. Can't be nice to hear."

Evander thinks it might have been if he had any designs on his mother being a good person in the first place; the way his aunt and godfather have gone twenty-three years maintaining telling, pointed silence on the subject while singing praises about his father… some part of him already knew. The truth simply doesn't hit as hard as it might have, is all. Evander is more breathless that Janus was glad to have him.

(_Is _glad.)

"No problem," It's the best he can manage. His head throbs. Tonight has been a bit much for him, yet he's loathe to abandon the conversation so early. It would be idiotic to retire when his godfather isn't lying for the first time in forever. "Niue…"

"Ah. It's about twelve hours ahead of London. Day when it's night. The sunset tends to match up with London's sunrise; most of the time, I escape a transformation. Sometimes, I don't." Janus looks vaguely uncomfortable, but Evander can't tell if that's because of a memory or because Janus has looked ill since he returned from the opposite side of the world.

"And this madness has worked for twenty-five years?"

"Twenty. Twenty years. To be precise."

"I was three?"

"I, er, used to drop you off at Clarice and huddle in the basement — that's what it used to be for, actually. It's how I knew the wards would hold up against most beasts. Nevertheless, I discovered the trick accidentally. I was moving a Fwooper. Wasn't watching the calendar, but luckily, Fiji was a good eleven hours ahead. I was an absolute horror to be around since my wolf had been locked up for a month, but without the full moon to trigger the curse, I held it down. No transformation. Eventually, I got important enough in the industry to have endless connections to international portkeys. Started travelling to Niue instead of risking you. It was easier."

Evander swallows.

"You said it sometimes didn't work. Was it… bad? When it didn't?"

"I love when you ask dumb questions," replies Janus. "Any others?"

Evander probably has a few. None pressing, he figures, and rubs his forehead when that painful throbbing returns. What a mess. His entire childhood, watched over by a werewolf. A _werewolf. _They're supposed to be vicious, uncontrollable beasts who eat children and randomly attack peaceful civilizations. _Monsters._

Janus is an arse, but he's _never _been that kind of person. It's exceedingly troublesome to reconcile the two truths. Borderline impossible, he's finding. One of them can't be true, and he knows which _is_, yet still...

Merlin's soiled underpants, this is boggling. Alright. Dunno what Evander is supposed to do with all this, but… alright.

"One." Evander says. He surprises himself with it.

Janus arches his eyebrow. It's a wan expression, empty of the usual scalding snark. "Go ahead, killer."

"How did you… raise me… how _could _you raise me after everything my — Rhea did?"

Janus looks annoyed now. He says, "You took the 'dumb question' thing seriously, didn't you?"

"Must have," Evander snaps. "Can you just—"

"You didn't choose her," Janus interrupts. "I know 'cause I didn't, I can tell it in other people, and I'm not the sort of pillock who doesn't realize that a kid can't pick their parent. That's why I raised you. Because you aren't her. Happy?"

He… is.

_He is,_ and it's flowing, bubbling, terrifically embarrassing with its intensity. Evander must be tired. Grown men shouldn't be this quick to cry, it's not done, which doesn't do much to ease the lump in his throat. It does, however, make Evander duck his head and desperately want to groan. He doesn't dare. He has a feeling any sound that comes from him will too closely resemble a sob.

There is buzzing in his ears, singing. It masks the sounds Janus must make when he stands; he's leaning on the table beside Evander's head, offering his comfort but not presuming to give it. It would be nice if Evander didn't suspect that the consideration is actually born of something uglier. _Savage beasts,_ he had thought. _Monsters that eat children._

Evander puts his arm on the table and lays across it, burying his face away. "You're wrong," He mumbles.

Janus doesn't reply straight away. Once, he would have asked Evander to repeat himself: it's impossible to understand him when he's muttering. Now that he's being all truthful about his wolfy powers, he doesn't bother pretending he can't hear, "About what?"

"Children can pick their parents."

"Okay, except they literally can't?"

That's Janus: always needs it spelled out. Evander's ears start burning preemptively. "I mean, I picked you. Didn't I?"

Silence. Evander's face is so warm he can feel it through his sleeve.

"Oh," Janus sounds alarmed. Shaky. "_Oh_, you can piss off, Evander Reginald Greaves."

Evander looks up so fast he nearly sprains something. He gasps. "Are you crying?"

Looking as surprised as his godson is, Janus scowls, his unshaven cheeks blotchy. "I don't bloody think so—"

"You're crying because I called you dad?"

Janus looks stricken. And teary. "You didn't call me dad," He says, strained, followed by a heartfelt, "you utter bastard. You can stay here and cry about it. I am going to chop some wood."

He storms out presumably to do just that. He might be growling. Hell. That just happened. All of it. His mum sucked, his godfather is the world's most creative problem-solver and a werewolf of the non-children-eating variety, and Evander _loves him._

_That's my dad_. _I want him to be my dad,_ he thinks. It's a distressing thought. _I'm… so dumb._

* * *

_Newt,_

_Usually, I keep the important news at the bottom of the letter and greet you with some pleasantries. Normal stuff to remind you how to socialize with humans instead of the creatures you typically favour. As nice as they are, the methods don't translate well. Which you very well know, so I'll get to the point._

_My godfather. Found out why he goes across the planet to bloody New Zealand every month. Bit dramatic. Wasn't expecting it in the slightest, which is appalling and embarrassing. Every full-moon and I didn't catch the pattern. Merlin, I want to die._

_Yes. To the point. You knew?! __This is a thing you tell people, Newt!__ … __Okay, it isn't. You can't go around telling whomever you damn well please about __**THIS!**__, but maybe you can tell your best friend? About important species-news regarding his godfather? Who he lives with?_

_Tell me when you're back in England. My tenuous emotional state would greatly benefit from smacking you, I believe. Preferably in your fleshy parts. I hope the next creature you meet whizzes on you, Newton Fido Artemis Scamander. It is the least you deserve, weasel._

_Theseus visited. Please tell him to not do that, would you? I don't care for an Auror showing up unannounced, even if he wants to talk about how much he misses you with "someone who will understand." It's dreadful. He loves you so much it makes me sick._

_Niue. That's where he goes? That's __why__? Honestly… I think I'm more annoyed that such an idiotic loophole works more than the secret. _

_Not that the secret keeping doesn't annoy me. Prepare for retaliation. Come back soon, so I can deliver._

_Sincerely,  
Evan_

_P.S. New owl. She gets nervous flying. Watch out for some vomit. She likes mice, too. (I assume you keep that sort of stuff in the pockets of all your waistcoats, so if you could sacrifice one to her, she'd appreciate it.)_

* * *

Note:

Janus is a werewolf who avoids transforming by flat-out avoiding the full moon. He goes across the world and hasn't experienced a full moon night in years. It works because my word is law in this universe and I think Newt would get a kick out of that.

After he dies, Evander blackmails his way into the Ministry to do some good about werewolf regulation laws. Some Remus stuff, maybe, if I could squeeze it in.


End file.
